Same Job, Different Day

From time to time I will be telling stories from times past when I was a Social Worker - They prove my point that some stories are universal - and some have been in my head for years.
In a grimy Northern City many years ago....
Our area office was situated on a roundabout near "The Precinct" - an area of tower blocks with a shopping centre, the wet dream of a planner who was assuredly never going to have to live with the misery he had created. The grass slopes of the underpass were a favourite spot on sunny days for the local drinking classes. They would gather with their plastic carrier bags and their drink of choice - White Lightening or Meths mixed with orange juice - a process they called "boxing", I never understood why. One or two of them would visit our office periodically and chief amongst those was William D. My mother didn't raise any rude children and, though he was often at best tipsy and at worst paralytic, I tried at first to call him Mr. D. He always reacted as if I had grossly insulted him, protesting that his name was William, not Bill or Billy but William. This strange formality was his hallmark, however drunk he was he was always softly spoken and polite, always hesitant to make eye contact.
William would turn up a couple of times a Month and the duty officer would see him. I look back on those days with nostalgia, call centres and performance indicators were still far in the future and although William was never formally on the caseload my Senior Practitioner recognised that he and I hit it off and he was happy for me to spend a bit of time with him, to try to win his trust. When he called he would always be in need of money for a bill or some other commitment and I would let him have small amounts from petty cash. I could set my clock by him on benefit days, he would appear before nine thirty, as sober as he got, and pay me back, anxiously insisting that I check the amount before going on his way to who knows where. After his death I found out that we were just one of his ports of call. He visited a couple of local cafes where he got meals on tick and the local corner shop where he got food on credit now and again.They all told the same tale, come benefit day this reticent Irishman would shuffle in and insist they count out the coins to make sure his debt was paid in full.
I left work one pitch black filthy November night and almost fell over him, stretched full length in the car park with the rain beating down on him. I ran back inside for my boss and together we managed to get him to his feet. He stood between us swaying and shaking his head at my boss and said "Oi've bin drinkin' since I wuz nineteen Mr. Miles. It's the brain d'ye see - it just canna take it" He staggered off looking like a ship tacking in a high wind and we looked at each other laughing ruefully, he constantly refused help, what could we do?
I decided I was going to have a last ditch attempt. I found out where he lived easily enough and I went round first thing one morning to see if I could catch him sober and weigh up the situation, see if I could find a way to help.He was delighted to see me. He ushered me into his high rise flat, hastily moving his sleeping bag from a sofa that was the sole piece of furniture in the room and insisting I sit down. He had just made his morning tea, it was in a battered tin tea pot big enough for ten people. That was his pattern. Each morning he drank a full pot of tea, one mug after another, without milk. When the pot was empty he went out and started drinking. He spoke softly, big hands dangling loosely between his knees as he told me about his life. He came over from Ireland at sixteen and worked on the road gangs. The money was good and he enjoyed the craic. He was nineteen when he sustained a head injury on Christmas Eve. The machine operator who hit him was drunk and in due course he received a nice sum in compensation. He wasn't able to work at the time so he drank..and drank...until the money was gone. There followed periods when he worked, he even mentioned a woman he had lived with for a while in a City some miles away but always the drink ruined it and each time he fell, he fell a little further. He spoke well, he was an alcoholic but he was an intelligent man. He told me that he had regular black outs, sometimes coming round to realise that he had been robbed as he lay senseless in his own vomit. I offered again to get him help and he momentarily met my eyes before saying "God love ye darlin' I don't deserve help an I don't want it now, it's all far too late"
I left feeling useless and when he arrived with a small box of Dairy Milk for me a couple of days later to say thank you for visiting him I could have howled with frustration. William didn't want my help but he said I was "an Angel from God" because I had bothered to go to his flat to offer.
He was found dead on the road outside his flat about three Months later. I went to his funeral and I was glad I did, I kept the caretaker of the flats company and the two of us gave the Priest someone to say the words to. Nobody knew if he had any family, we were the only mourners. He was forty eight. William has been dead for twelve years, today is the anniversary of his death and I tip a wink to his God to let him know I am thinking of him. It's not much but it's all I can do. God Bless William.